


If the Look Fits

by spikesgirl58



Series: Working Stiffs [28]
Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:52:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her specialty is disguises designed to fool an agent's own mother, but what about an agent's partner?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Look Fits

I’m one of those really weird people who loves her job.  I do!  I really, really adore my job. I can’t wait to get to work in the morning, hate to leave at night and begrudgingly take weekends off.  I know it’s too weird for words, but there’s never one day that’s the same as the others.  Every morning I walk in and there’s a new challenge waiting to face me, some suitably bizarre task to tease and taunt my abilities.

I work in Section Eight – Research and Development, but we prefer Deception and Camouflage.  We’re the lab rats, the creators of the nifty toys, and just generally thought to be the place where all the high school and college nerds went when the schools tossed them out.  We have some of the best brains in the world working for us, so the atmosphere is always charged.  But that’s not why I love my job.

No, for me it’s even more basic.  As a kid, I loved to play dress up.  I would spend hours in front of my mom’s big vanity, trying out first one look and then another.  Naturally, when I got older, theater called to me.  While I loved it and all the opportunities doing make up and costuming provided, I was also practical.  You can’t make a good steady living at it.  Then UNCLE came knocking and that’s all she wrote.  Suddenly, I had a steady paycheck and benefits.  But that’s also not why I love my job.

Because of who we are, we work hand in hand with some of the biggest name fashion designers in the world.  We are cutting edge when it comes to the latest cosmetics and ‘looks.’  We have our own division of Section Eight that creates new perfumes and scents (with added benefits, like sleep-inducing Channel No. 2, as we like to call it).  And we are allowed to borrow the stock, even buy some of the used items at a fraction of their cost.  I can buy a Paris original for pennies on the dollar.  And best yet, there’s no dress code for us. We can wear anything we want, even pants!  Is that like craziness or what?  But that’s still not why I love my job.

Then there are the naked guys.  Well, they’re not exactly naked always… but, sometimes they are.  To spend the day surrounded by some of the most drop dead gorgeous, athletic and **single** guys, it’s little slice of heaven for a girl, but that’s still not why I love my job.

You’re hooked now, aren’t you?  You cannot figure out why I’m in such love with what I do.  We play.  All day long, we play. We use life-size, flesh-and-blood Ken and Barbie dolls, of course, but it’s still play.  And when you get someone who wants to play right back, well that’s just… neat!

I’ll give you an example. It was Monday morning and the weekend had been okay, but no party at the Savoy.  I went out with friends Saturday night and saw a new group, The Kingston Trio.  Frankly, I don’t think they’re going to go very far, but that’s just my opinion.  So, I came tripping down the stairs – I never take the elevator.  Too many crazy things happen in our elevators, I prefer the stairs and it helps me keep my figure too.  I do want to get married one of these days, but not just yet.  Mama seems to think it’s the destiny of every woman to become a housewife and mother.   I prefer to think of it as a career choice instead.  It’s a very hip attitude these days and I like it.

Hawthorne was testing out some crazy kinda two-wheeled cart thing, like that will ever be of any use, and was riding down the hallway like an escaped monkey from the zoo.   Mickovich had been writing on the corridor walls with this new vanishing, reappearing, re-vanishing ink. The application for that escapes me, but everyone was waiting to see what he’d written.  He’s a bit of a philosopher, like that Beetle Bailey character.

I walked into our work room and there were dozens of dresses spread out on a cutting table.  We’d been trying to do an inventory for two weeks now, but we had an emergency job turning this street performer into a high society babe and got side tracked and then another and another. Some weeks are like that, but it keeps the days from getting boring.

Anyhow, my day brightened when the door opened and one of my favorite Section Twos walked in.  Illya should have been a stage actor with his propensity for costume and makeup, not that he needs either.  I’ve seen him alter his looks just by thinking about it.  Seriously, it was a freaky thing to watch.

“I was wondering if that new batch of water proof makeup was in,” he said, just as causal as if he was asking for a pen and paper.  You have to love a man that comfortable with makeup.

“Partially,” Judy, my co-worker said and started shifting dresses around on the table.  “I saw a box from Ben Nye here somewhere.”

He lent us a hand shifting through the various gowns and then I noticed that Judy had paused and was holding up a gown in front of her.  It was the blue sequined thing, something new we’d gotten in from Paris just the a few days before.  She was holding it up and smiling, this deliciously evil and wonderful smile.

“Illya?”

“Yes?’

“You’d look great in this.” 

He glanced up and then did a great double take.  “No, I will condescend to wear yak, go without bathing for a week and submit to spirit gum in uncomfortable places.  I will not put on a dress.”

“But this would look so good on you and you’re the perfect size.”  She held it up in front of him and he took a step away from her as if afraid of being burned by it. 

“She’s right, Illya.  That color is perfect for you.” I chimed in just because it was fun and she was right.  With his slender build, he was exactly the right size for it.

“Suki, not you as well?”  The look he shot me was just this side of betrayal.  “I thought we were friends.”

“C’mon, Illya, what have you got to lose?  Judy picked up the offensive again. 

“Besides every scrap of dignity I possess, I can’t think of a thing.”   

“Think of it as a challenge, as striking a blow for equality.”

“Think of it as a blow to my ego!”

“Illya, you’re one of the most masculine men I know.”  Okay so I was gilding the lily a little, but I could tell he was wavering.  He loved to dress up as much as the rest of us.

“I’m locking the door.”  I did just that.  “It’ll be just our little secret.”  And I said it with a straight face.  All those acting classes sure came in handy now.

“I shall get no peace until I do this, shall I?”  He sighed this huge sigh.

“Nope!” I nearly shouted.

“Not on your life.”  Judy was beaming like the light coming from high beams.

“All right, but be quick about it.”  He started to unknot his tie.  Do you see why I love this agent?

“If we’re going to do this, we have to do this properly though.”  Judy started to rummage around in a drawer and pulled out a panty girdle with falsies added.

“No, I draw the line at underwear.”  Illya’s voice was firm in this. He’d pulled off his tie and jacket.  The sight of his white shirt being crushed by that black holster took my breath away for a moment.  He had no idea how sexy he looked like that.  Then he glanced up at me through his eyelashes and I realized he knew exactly how he looked – the sneaky little bastard.

“These are special, Illya.  You can’t wear the dress without curves. And mister, you ain’t got any tits or an ass.”

“I beg your pardon?”  He tried for a shocked look, but it was ruined by his smirk.  He glanced back over his shoulder appraisingly. 

“Sorry, you’re fine for a guy, but as a woman, you just wouldn’t cut it.”  She held up the panties with extra padding built in.  “This will fill you out properly.”

“I shudder to ask why you have such a thing.”  His shirt was off now and I looked around for something to fan myself with.  Anything to avoid looking at that little medallion resting in that little nest of dark blond chest hair.   If Judy hadn’t been there I’d have had him on his back and halfway to Happy Town by now.

“Everyone can use a little help.”

And that’s how it went, we coerced and argued and got him bullied into everything, from the padding down to the high-heeled shoes --  “If I fall and break an ankle, you will lie to preserve my dignity,” he threatened us -- to the long curly red wig to full make up.  Believe it or not, that was the easiest part.  His hands were a problem, but we solved that with bangle bracelets and long gloves with padding in the fingers to make his own blunt fingers look longer and more slender.  It was great.  He was gorgeous and I think even he was surprised the first time he saw himself in the mirror, but I noticed he was frowning.

“Illya, what’s wrong?”

“I look like my mother.”

“Then your mother was one damn sexy woman!  Mister, you are drop dead!”

“You don’t think this dress makes my ass look big?”  We were having a great laugh with it when the door slid open, I swear I did lock it, and Napoleon Solo came walking in.  Judy and I evaporated into a cascade of giggles, which I’m sure he attributed to his manly arrival.  Illya looked like he was ready to bolt for the nearest changing screen, but to move would draw even more attention to himself.  Instead he froze and behind the green contact lenses, his eyes were sending me a frantic message of “get rid of him!”

“I was wondering if any of you ladies had seen my partner.  I seem to have mislaid him somewhere and he owes me lunch.”  Napoleon glanced around the room as if we were hiding Illya beneath a pile of dresses.

“He was here for awhile,” Judy said, casually moving a Coco Chanel evening gown over Illya’s holster and jacket.  “But I haven’t seen **him** in the last thirty minutes.”

“And who’s your friend?”  Napoleon would latch onto a new woman like a leech on an ankle.  Well, that sounds unkind, but it’s the principle I’m describing.  But he’d noticed the new woman.

“Oh, this is Irina…she’s just arrived.”

“And is about to leave,” I added, grabbing Illya’s arm to propel him into my office, almost tipping him off his shoes.

“Well, perhaps I could be of service.  Are you new in town?”  Napoleon gallantly swept forward and offered his arm.

“Oh, she doesn’t speak a lot of English,” Judy countered immediately.  “She’s a new transfer.”

“Irina is Russian, _da_?”

“ _Da_.” The voice that answered back was husky and quiet and I was dumbfounded.  Illya had apparently decided to run with it.

“You’ll have to meet my partner.  He’s Russian.  He’s an okay sort, but a little stand offish.   Perhaps I could escort you out tonight?  I know some of the most romantic spots in the city, all perfect for getting to know each other better.”

“Then the question remains, your place or mine, Napoleon?”

Napoleon’s face got confused.  “How do you know my name?”

“Why shouldn’t I know my partner’s name?”  Illya slipped the wig off and grinned at his partner.  We burst into laughter that bordered on hysterics.

I have to admit that Napoleon was a good sport about it and a few seconds later he joined us, howling.   He put the wig back on Illya and just shook his head in amazement.

“Why, Mr. Kuryakin, you’re, you’re beautiful.”  Then he grabbed his partner and tipped him back, planting the Mother of All Kisses square on him.  Illya gave him back as good as he got and we went from hilarity to sheer hysteria. 

Ten minutes later ‘Irina’ had vanished replaced by a still grinning Illya.  He grabbed the box of makeup Judy had found while he was changing and gestured to the door.  Still laughing, Napoleon draped a comradely arm over his shoulder and they left.

And me, well, hell, I was just delighted that we had all those cameras silently snapping away because I knew one of them would be the perfect shot for the cover of the Girls of UNCLE calendar this year.  I would just have to arrange to be out of the country when it got unveiled.

Now do you see why I love my job?  How many other people do you know got to dress Illya Kuryakin in a Maxim of Paris, a panty girdle and stilettos and lived to tell the tale?


End file.
